


Genesis

by scrapbullet



Category: Blade (Movie Series), Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-29
Updated: 2011-04-29
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:47:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,795
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’s never known such agony. It builds; a low and incomprehensible ache as he struggles for air, struggles against the brutal force of a man, a man with cold eyes and a cruel smile that draws the very blood from his veins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis

**Author's Note:**

> the_azure_blue wanted the prequel of Meathook... and although this turned out very different than what I intended, it was still a fun little exercise. No knowledge of Blade is needed, beyond the events of the first movie. Vampire!fic. A Cobb/Robert sequel is pending.

He’s never known such agony. It builds; a low and incomprehensible ache as he struggles for air, struggles against the brutal force of a man, a man with cold eyes and a cruel smile that draws the very blood from his veins. He can’t breathe.

He can’t breathe.

-

It’s a slow process. Like a newborn babe he must first learn to crawl before he can walk, and Frost is unusually tender.

 _(“It’s the eyes, man,” Quinn rumbles, his grin threatening to overcome his sickly face. “Frost has a weakness for ‘em, and yours are so fuckin’ pretty.”_ )

He doesn’t like Quinn. Quinn is slow and stupid; an insect. He tells Frost this, and Frost laughs, pulls him into his arms and presses bloody kisses to hungry lips until stolen blood makes them bruise, red and plump and inviting.

Is this what love feels like?

-

Crawl, walk, run.

He learns to be self-sufficient. It isn’t easy, not when there is a yearning deep within the hollow of his chest that demands he bow down at his Maker’s feet, bow down and lick his shoes clean if he so desires it but he is no mere servant.

“You’re so much more than that, kiddo,” nails, tapered to a deadly point, draw a line in his flesh, scoring from shoulder to hip in a thrill of sensation. And that’s what this is, isn’t it? Pure sensation in its most simplistic form; of Frost’s cock sliding deep inside him until the stretch and burn is all too much. He keens, lost, fingers scrabbling uselessly at the headboard as each thrust splits him wide and open and vulnerable.

“Shh,” Frost croons, and his fingers are quick, nimble, trailing down to touch and stroke and knead. They come away slick with pre-cum, pressing tantalisingly against his lips and Frost, Frost smiles, pleased at his pets’ subjugation.

He doesn’t hear what Frost says next; overcome. Shaking in the afterglow he’s never felt so alive.

-

It isn’t easy. His prey, young and agile, puts up a fight and he finds himself tiring of this, this game of life and death and survival. He hungers. He hungers so very much and this girl, this _animal_ , is brimming bright and vibrant with bloody essence. It makes his mouth water, his fangs lengthen.

“Careful,” Frost intones, and the stench of cigarette smoke is heady in the air, “if you don’t strike now you’ll break her neck.”

She twists, panting breathlessly. She’s pretty, he supposes, with her blue eyes and pale skin, but he desires nothing more than what lies beneath the flesh. Forcing her head back his teeth sink in deep, hot, arterial blood spurting into his mouth. He moans in pleasure. It’s like nothing he’s ever tasted; a thick metallic tang that slides down his throat and eases the trembling in his guts.

 _Break her neck?_ He’s much more careful than that.

The starving ache in his belly recedes with every vicious pull. When she stills, dead, there is only a detached sense of satisfaction as his meal settles, his limbs heavy and lethargic.

“That’s my boy,” Frost hums. There is such pride in those cold eyes, such pride that he is overwhelmed. It is almost fatherly; a warmth hidden beneath the veneer of a cold-blooded killer.

Frost takes no prisoners.

Unless he wants something to play with, that is.

-

He doesn’t remember his name.

Frost says it’s not important.

-

The entertainment varies. The club - home to writhing bodies and blood that runs freely, whether it be human, vampire or familiar – plays host to many a skilled artist. Dancers, singers, acrobats... whatever stimulates the baying crowd and their singular lust for _more_ , and bound toys are a dime a dozen.

And yet, so much more than just _food_.

Tonight, there is a boy. He can’t be called a man, not really, and he’s terrified. He has the demeanour of a deer caught in headlights, knowing all too well that his demise is soon to come and that it won’t be quick, not at all, and yet he stands on two feet staring it in the face, full of false _courage_. Stares it in the face with a pulse that jumps rabbit-quick in his ears, making him want to growl, growl and snarl and _strain_ , strain against his Makers hold-

Frost pulls him back hard, hand an anchor on his shoulder. “Not quite, sport. You’ve had your fun. Let someone else have a turn.”

The boy flinches. He doesn’t waver. Frost blows smoke into his face and he doesn’t even blink, doesn’t dare, body quaking as his legs threaten to give out beneath him.

Bravery. How... sweet.

“Huh.” Derisive, Frost tosses the cigarette butt aside. “He’d look fucking awesome speared on my dick, don’t you think?”

The boy doesn’t last long. They never do.

-

The bigger they are the harder they fall.

It’s inevitable.

But unlike the rest of those jibbering fools, he’s a survivor.

-

He meets Eames on a cold January night, bracing himself against the onslaught of wind and rain. There’s something familiar about this man, something familiar about the way he holds himself, the way he talks, the way he smiles with his lips but not his eyes. It’s that familiarity that gives him pause, cocks his head as he tries to piece together the tattered remnants of his memory but it hurts too much to focus.

Eames calls him Cobb.

 _Cobb_.

It’s not a name he knows. In truth it only confuses him more, rather than providing a link to the man that he once was, the man he had been before Frost had taken him home.

Except, now he _has_ no home.

“You’ve been gone a long time. We’d almost given up hope.”

Eames acts as if he knows him, but Cobb has no recollection. He is a stranger, albeit a beguiling one, and the sound of his quickening heartbeat makes Cobb’s gums throb.

But there is a connection. Past, present, future. Eames _knows_ things, things that Cobb has forgotten.

Things that Frost took from him.

Lighting up a cigarette Eames eyes Cobb as they walk, slow and careful. The smell of it, Malboro Lights, makes him twitch, irritable.

“You’ve changed.”

Cobb winces. “Have I? I’m sorry, I’m not quite sure who you are.”

Eames smiles; a faint quirk of full lips. He doesn’t look surprised. “I’m an old friend, you could say.”

Thunder rumbles overhead.

It sounds hungry. Funny, that.

-

Eames lives in a flat in the suburbs. It’s a temporary accommodation, Cobb notes, and it smells like dust and damp.

“You can stay with me a while,” he says. “And don’t worry, the curtains block out sunlight well enough.”

He knows.

Cobb can’t find it in him to care.

-

“I have a son-”

“And a daughter, yes.”

Cobb looks at the photographs, some new and some old, looks into the eyes of his children and feels oddly disconnected. These are his children? The girl - “Phillipa,” Eames interjects, indicating a tiny young thing with Cobb’s eyes and Cobb’s smile – peers up at him with all the innocence of a lamb.

His chest aches.

Eames only looks at him, knowing in his eyes.

-

Hungry.

He’s so very hungry.

“I don’t think you understand,” he says casually, and he practically trembles with suppressed desire, “how much I want to split you open. I want to bury my hands wrist deep in your guts and watch you writhe, watch you squirm. You’d look wonderful with your intestines wrapped around my fingers.”

Eames hums. His fingers, smudged with ink, pluck at a stack of documents. The desk is strewn with papers and photographs, a mug of day-old coffee resting precariously at his elbow. “You’re not the first monster I’ve met.”

Cobb frowns. How unfortunate.

-

Feeding is a necessity.

When the need arises, his guts clench. He hasn’t fed for days and Eames’ very presence is enough to send him into a frenzy, nails tearing into vulnerable flesh. To Eames’ credit he doesn’t struggle, only tilts his head back and lets Cobb drink, eyes glassy and lips parted in ecstasy.

Blood is life, Frost had told him, blood is everything. It’s so much more than just sustenance, and the act of taking it into oneself is almost sexual in its intensity.

A cock thickens against Cobb’s thigh. He squeezes it, and the low groan that escapes his prey’s lips excites him. He knows how to play this game. In this, he’s a pro.

“You’re a fool,” he murmurs, lips slick with red. Eames only laughs breathlessly, and palms the back of his head as if to urge him onward.

“So they say.”

Skin to skin, and Eames is searing hot as Cobb presses between his legs, licking up the last vestiges of blood that has trickled down his throat. They rut against each other and the power, the absolute dominance of the act has him growling, kissing lips hard enough to bruise, a harsh collision of tongue and teeth.

When Eames comes, Cobb bites down once more. Enhanced by sweet endorphins his blood is nirvana and he just can’t get enough.

-

It’s a dangerous path they tread.

“You shouldn’t have let me-”

Eames scowls. “I knew perfectly well what I was doing, Cobb, and I know what you are. I’m not a child.” His neck is tender, chewed raw. Cobb looks away, guilty.

“All the same, I should go.”

“Arthur will find you. He knows you’re alive.”

Cobb’s lips twist wryly. “I wouldn’t say _alive_ exactly, Eames.”

“Yes, well.” A hand waves it off quickly, and the moment passes. Leaning forward he grips Cobb’s chin with all the bravery of a madman, and when he thumbs the lower lip his mouth opens for him, revealing fangs that have lengthened; long and deadly. “There’s still so much you don’t remember. Mal-”

“Is dead.”

Exasperated, he drags the pad of his thumb along smooth enamel. “There are those who know what we did, Cobb.”

The details elude him still. The past is difficult to grasp, and all that he has learnt seems... inconsequential. His profession, though fascinating, means nothing to him when all he has known since his rebirth is death and ancient power. Dreams? Vampires don’t dream. Resisting the urge to _accidentally_ catch the tender flesh between his teeth Cobb draws away, silent. He’s made up his mind.

A sigh. Eames settles back into his chair, flipping his totem idly from one hand to the other. It’s a nervous habit, Cobb supposes, one that he finds himself mirroring on occasion, though his top is long since gone. “Fischer knows.”

His face splits into a smile. “Then I’ll just have to kill him then, won’t I?”

Eames looks troubled.

Acquiesces.

-

But it’s never that simple, is it?


End file.
